


Scientists Don't Communicate Directly

by Nidor_and_Petrichor



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Expressing Emotions Can Be Hard Okay, M/M, Night Vale has a Lot of Cameras and Paperwork, Photos, Semi-Forbidden Technologies, Texting, Voyeuristic Intentions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-20 08:51:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1504292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nidor_and_Petrichor/pseuds/Nidor_and_Petrichor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Words are difficult, vanity pointless, and memories important. In which Cecil and Carlos have to rely on technology to help express themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Phones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Scientists don’t communicate directly. Everybody knows that. They communicate using a series of obscure and arcane codes and signals. That is what is meant to be a scientist."
> 
> -Cecil Palmer, Condos

_I had a really good time last night._

It's from Cecil, of course. It's late afternoon, which means that he must be preparing for his radio show to start. Carlos wonders if Cecil had carefully calculated how long to wait before sending that text, if he'd decided on the optimal hour to ensure that it wasn't too soon, but wasn't yet overdue.

He looks at his own already-typed, unsent message, waiting at the bottom of the screen:

_I had a nice time at dinner the other night._

He's glad Cecil texted first. Carlos had been the one to initiate the asking, after all, and if it hadn't gone well he wouldn't want to seem pushy. Still, if Cecil hadn't mentioned it over the next few days, he'd have been forced strike the conversation back up himself. Although if that had been the case, he felt it unlikely that his efforts would have proved terribly successful.

Too many variables; he's glad Cecil texted first.

He modifies his own message to read,

_I had a good time, too._

He considers adding a smiley face to the end of the text. Should he add a smiley face? The words already convey approval. Right? But, wait. He reads the text again. Maybe not enough approval? How much approval, exactly, _should_ they convey?

The phone vibrates in his hand and another series of text message appear below the first, nothing yet sent from Carlos to separate them in the conversation.

 _I took care of the paperwork with City Council.  
I checked the box indicating intention for a future date.  
_Hope that wasn't too forward.

It feels as if the fluttering in his stomach is pushing upwards against his lungs, and he suddenly needs to take a deep breath to kickstart his thoughts.

Shit. Okay. Something else to reply to. It wasn't a question. But it clearly is a question. Just... in disguise.

Letters and words and symbols are all so slippery. That's why they're the placeholders for the unknown quantities or imaginary values in equations. They, in and of themselves, have only arbitrarily, socially-imbued meaning. He'd much rather ask Cecil a series of carefully curated questions, judged on a scale of 1 to 10. If only he had data, Carlos thinks, then he could make an informed and considered decision about this whole thing. He could make charts. If there is enough of an established basis to work off of, the extrapolation is easy. Charts would make this much easier, he was certain.

Also, paperwork? Weird. Night Vale is weird. Though the weirdness is quickly becoming a background hum to his universe these days, it still makes him uncomfortable that somebody else knows his business when he isn't sure of it himself.

Back to the text. An exclamation mark. That's enthusiastic. He adds on,

_And, no, not too forward._

No, that's weird, the period at the end is weird. It seems stilted. Should he put a smiley face there? No, get rid of the period, but no smiley face. Not too stilted, but not _too_ enthusiastic. Casual! He can do casual. He doesn't want to come off desperate or anything. Yeah, he can _totally_ do casual.

_I had a good time, too! And, no, not too forward_

Yeah. That seems... okay. Yeah.

He hits send.

He totally can't do casual. But all things considered, he could probably propose marriage here and now and he'd still be playing it way cooler than Cecil has up to this point. Maybe Cecil likes that Carlos is a little bit aloof. Maybe it's a thrill-of-the-chase thing. But if it is, and if he's just agreed they should go out again, maybe that's _not_ attractive? Like, maybe that negates the excitement of the whole thing? Maybe he should tone it down even more?

Self-reliant Carlos is; self-assured, he is not.

His phone vibrates again with another message. The screen hasn't even had time to go dark yet, and he marvels at how quickly Cecil seems to be able to make up his mind about how to say whatever it is that he wants to communicate.

_In that case, are you free on Thursday?_

At least this one has an actual question mark involved, clear and direct in its purpose.

_Yes._

He wonders again about that period-or-not-or-altenative-punctuation dilemma, but it's too late now – he's already sent it.

Once again, the response is almost instant, but is, again, mercifully easy to glean the meaning of.

_Dinner and a movie? 7 o'clock?_

_Yes._

He wipes his hand on his coat to wick away the nervous sweat that has suddenly developed on his palms. Somehow talking to Cecil in a parking lot after nearly being killed was easy – so easy – easy like the shedding of skin cells or the spin of electrons. Somehow talking to him over dinner was simple, too: slightly embarrassing, but ultimately the warm haze of the evening had bolstered his courage. But here, this... writing... these short, single-word replies via phone are wracking his nerves something fierce.

The animation of a reply being composed loops at the bottom of the screen as Cecil types something. It pauses. Nothing happens for a moment. It resumes. There is another pause, another burst of typing, and then a message comes through.

_Great!_

Carlos involuntarily barks out a laugh as a perfect and fully-formed image pops into his mind. He imagines Cecil typing, “Neat!” regretting it, deleting it, considering alternatives and then deciding on “Great!” He's not certain that's what's just happened, but it makes his insides warm to realize it probably is. It makes the rest of him warm, too, to think he might already know Cecil well enough to know that.

He types out a quick message. And, as a nod to the unknown quantity of the future, he adds a symbol, to stand for hopefulness in the face of uncertainty.

_See you then :)_

 

* * *

 

At the end of their second date, Carlos drives Cecil home. He puts the car in park and turns to face the man in the passenger seat.

Cecil unbuckles his seat belt and fidgets with it as he says, “Well. Thanks for the lovely time.”

“My pleasure,” Carlos says, warm and sincere and lingering just a little bit on that second word.

There's a pause, and Carlos doesn't seem to be filling it, so Cecil jumps right in. “The City Council will want to know how it... ended.”

“Well, I, um, suppose that depends. Do you want to– will you– I mean, can I see you again? Maybe this weekend?” Carlos asks, and the fluster in his voice is somehow, impossible though it may seem, just possibly even more wonderful and endearing than his perfect teeth or his square jaw or his beautiful hair or his brilliant mind.

“Of course!” Cecil says in a rush, and laughs at his own enthusiasm. Because it's funny that Carlos could ever seem uncertain about his desire to spend time with him. Or around him. Or under him.

That would be good, too.

“In that case...” Carlos trails off and leans across the center divider of the car to kiss Cecil once, twice, and a third, lingering time. “In that case,” he has to clear his throat to strengthen his voice, “I'll see you on Saturday?”

“Mm-hm,” Cecil hums happily, nearly tripping out of the car, too busy looking at the man still in it. “See you then.”

They stare at each other for another long moment before the dinging of the car reminds them that the door is open and that they are acting like idiots.

“Well, good night,” Carlos says.

“Drive safely,” Cecil says.

Neither of them stops grinning until hours later.

 

* * *

 

 

The buzzing of his phone pulls Carlos from sleep several Saturdays later.

_Good morning, handsome!_

He takes a brief moment to roll his face into his pillow, uncertain who he is trying to hide his smile from, but knowing that his happiness is something just for him, alone, to savor.

_Good morning!_

He stretches in bed, struck for a brief moment by the strange, wonderful intimacy of talking to – well, typing to – Cecil, all while still sleep-tousled and under the covers. He wonder if Cecil is in bed, too. He wonders what that looks like. It seems to take forever to get a response, although in reality it's probably only a matter of sixty seconds or so, but he chooses to blame time in Night Vale rather that his own giddy, teenage-like emotions.

_Did you eat yet? I was thinking we could maybe go out for breakfast._

He's going to need about an hour to become properly presentable. As for the town's breakfast options, he's totally open for suggestions, and he says so.

To keep his baseless anxiety in check while he waits for a reply, he forces himself upright and out of bed. He shambles to the bathroom and squeezes out a line of toothpaste, shooting impatient sideways glances to the phone resting on the edge of the sink.

_Okay! Eleven o'clock is perfect. Moonlite All-Nite Diner or Blue Mesa Grill?_

Carlos considers the options but can't bring himself to commit when he doesn't have any prior experience or rational basis.

_Either. You pick._

_How about the Moonlite for breakfast today?_

_Sure, sounds good._

He's so engrossed in considering what to do with his hair that the vibration of the phone actually makes him jump. When he looks at the content of the message, he nearly chokes on his toothbrush.

_And maybe Blue Mesa for breakfast tomorrow...?_

He has to spit out his toothpaste and re-read the message a half-dozen times before he's sure it says what he thinks it says. It does say what he thinks it says, but he can't tell if it implies what he thinks it implies.

_...Is this one date or two?_

_Either.  
_ _You pick._

He's not sure in that moment if he wants to applaud Cecil for delivering the option over text so that he's allowed to silently freak out in his bathroom instead of in front of another human being, or whether he wants to berate Cecil for making him choose via his phone when he can't judge the tenor and tone of the offer. Regardless of what emotional reaction he's having right now, it's pretty clear how his body has already decided to vote.

He's beginning to hope they skip this morning's breakfast all together, though he's in no hurry to fast forward to tomorrow's.

Forget showering or making coffee: he's going to need from now until eleven to remember how to breathe again. There are so many implications to that message and he has no clues as to how he is supposed to process them. Three words, and about fifteen questions he's being asked to respond to. Sneaky, sneaky words. He finally settles on a reply:

_Blue Mesa is closer to my place than yours, so you should probably bring whatever you need._

Thankfully, Cecil seems to understand words and their malleable meanings without needing additional context.

_Okay! I've got the paperwork, too.  
See you soon!_

Carlos types. He pauses. 

_Can't wait!_

Well, as his Great Aunt Lupe used to say: in for a penny, in for a pound. He hits send.

 __ _;)_

 


	2. Cameras

Carlos is the first to admit that is his greatest shortcomings are probably pride and vanity. He is all too well aware that he is perceived as both intelligent and attractive, and he sees no use in trying to downplay either. Why should he? He could hardly be faulted for being born with incredible bone structure, and he certainly wasn't about to fein humbleness over the years of study and hard work he'd put into his science. And it certainly hadn't hurt that the voice on the radio had waxed so poetic about both. It was an unnecessary but appreciated ego boost; the town itself, unfortunately, seemed to have other ideas for him.

Everything about Night Vale threw him for a loop when he arrived. Everything that he held dear, everything that he thought he knew, was completely useless here. Physics, logic, social niceties, chemistry, biology – none of it adhered to the theories he'd come to know as absolutes in a world of easy, calculated reason. He'd expected challenges to his assumptions, but he was in over his head.

This town was a minefield for his scientific expectations, and it daily left him overwhelmed and bewildered. He kept control over what he could – the ways in which he presented himself.

He smiled confidently and strode through town with his head held high, even when he felt the foundations of his knowledge crumbling beneath him. He kept his labcoats clean, he picked the dust and sand from under his fingernails. Daily jogs were replaced by frequent sprints for his life, though the net effect was relatively similar. His diet was going steadily downhill from the municipally-mandated pizza, but there was hardly anything to be done on that end; the law is the law, after all.

But really, what he could use most of all, the best kind of self-definition to be found, was a haircut.

He's not sure why he'd been expecting anything better. Telly's Barbershop was a small-town affair with a single, overweight, middle-aged employee – hardly one of the upscale salons full of trendy young stylists he'd come to favor. He'd assumed that the man must know what he was doing, being the only barber in town and all.

How unfortunate and wrong he'd been.

For days afterwards he hid, only leaving the lab when absolutely necessary. It took a good deal of sulking and soul searching before he managed to come to the conclusion that it would grow back, eventually, and perhaps this was all some kind of sign from the universe that he needed to make some changes.

For most of his life he'd floated – not effortlessly, but certainly easily – through the expectations of others, getting by on wits and good looks. Maybe this was his wakeup call. His chance to really prove himself.

He would redouble his efforts, focus on his work, and certainly _stop_ paying attention to that charming man from the radio who was always trying to distract him.

 

* * *

 

There are no mirrors in Cecil's apartment. Anywhere. This doesn't bother Carlos in the way it once would have: a year in Night Vale had begun to give him an appreciation for the less-superficial things in life, like brief respites from existential terror, and working organ systems.

He was, though, confused over how Cecil managed to function.

As they spent more and more time together he began to slowly realize that his boyfriend had adopted a regimented lifestyle in order to work around his aversions: every day he wore a minor variation on the theme of oxford shirt and khakis to work, regardless of the heat or weather; he saved neckties for important meetings, but always matched his belt and shoes; weekends and evenings were for t-shirts and jeans. It was only on special occasions that he would deviate from these routines, and the results of these forays into fashion were frequently suspect.

He shaved at night, waiting until the steam dissipated, using the dark surface of the closed window to examine his reflection. It was only proper mirrors he avoided, it seemed, although he didn't seem to put much extra thought into his appearance.

Cecil's face was neither chiseled nor doughy, neither broad nor pinched. The overall effect was well-proportioned, certainly, but its true appeal when when it was in motion.

Carlos spent an inordinate amount of time watching the way the muscles around his eyes caused them to shift shape, rounding them in surprise, flattening them with sleep. He would crack jokes just to watch the skin on the bridge of Cecil's nose scrunch itself upwards in amusement. He would kiss the furrows in his brow, feeling the tension leaving his forehead and knowing the corners of his mouth would relax as well. Cecil's was nothing if not passionate, and his face came alive with every emotion.

Despite the charm of his open-book of expressions, he seemed blissfully unaware of how profoundly it defined him and would brush off compliments as uninteresting, unimportant.

“You're making the most adorable face,” Carlos comments one afternoon as Cecil struggles to fit the remainder of their canned goods into the pantry, which has been recently and mysteriously reorganized by aura color.

“Oh?” is all Cecil will respond, distracted. “I'm sure I'll be back to normal soon.”

 

* * *

 

Carlos hatches the plan one evening as they're sitting on the trunk of his car, watching the void slowly sneaking up on the unsuspecting chartreuse sky.

There's a buzz from Cecil's phone, and he pulls it out to check who the message is from. Dana has been making contact more frequently, but their windows for communication are limited at best.

Carlos catches sight of the background image: it's a photo of him from the day he arrived in Night Vale, the one published in the Daily Journal.

It hits him then that he doesn't think he's taken any pictures of people since arriving in the desert. Not of himself, of his co-workers, of his new friends. Clock goo and non-existent houses and suspicious stains on the pavement, sure, but not a single, solitary photograph of his Cecil.

For all his incessant texting and Facebook checking, Cecil doesn't seem to take many photos, either. This might have something to do with the broken screens, smoking insides and bleeding that his phones seem prone to, or perhaps a cultivated caution against photography. Carlos vaguely recalls that Khoshekh's image may or may not be to blame for at least one intern death, but he refuses to let a fear born of feline photography scare him off now that he's made his mind up: he's going to take some damn pictures of his boyfriend.

And so begins a silent crusade.

Sometimes Carlos manages to catch serene, candid shots. Sometimes Cecil catches him looking and makes faces for the camera. He asks friends and strangers to take pictures of the two of them together around town, sightseeing, on dates. He texts the best of these to Cecil, who inevitably uploads them with too many filters and ridiculous hashtags.

In the earliest of these they touch only at their edges, still uncertain how they fit together. As time goes on, they begin to relax: their fingers intertwine, heads come to rest on shoulders, noses bury themselves softly against necks. The spaces between them begin to slow disappear until, even when standing apart, they seem connected by invisible strings, acting in tandem, balancing one another.

 

* * *

 

Carlos has seen what can happen in Night Vale, where the populace is encourage to drink to forget and thought crimes are aggressively cracked down upon. He is terrified that if his memories only exist as electrical signals inside his brain or documented as data on a handheld device they can be lost, or corrupted beyond recognition. He needs a physical manifestation of the time he's spent here. He needs reassurance that no matter what happens there will still be a record of everything, of the time and energy and emotion that he's poured into these months.

Carlos hadn't realized until he began collating images just how many moments there were, and just how fully they seemed to encompass the past year: there was almost nothing worth noting that Cecil hadn't been there for, in some form or another – birthdays, nights out, holidays and day trips, move-in day to their new home, celebratory dinners for successful experiments, consolation desserts for terrible days dealing with the new Strex management team.

He gives Cecil a photo album on their anniversary, a collection of evidence of how their lives have been spiraling closer and closer inward. He also makes sure to get duplicates, and puts the extra set in a fireproof lockbox. Just in case.

“This is my favorite,” he says, pointing to one of the pictures near the end of the album, taken through the glass of the broadcast booth at the station. Cecil is leaning on his forearms, canted forward towards the microphone, eyes closed and mouth open, both speaking and smiling. “I came by to pick you up for dinner, but I was early and you were still wrapping up the show.

“I printed an extra copy,” he adds, suddenly feeling flushed and embarrassed. “For my desk. At work.”

“Thank you, Carlos,” Cecil says, taking his face and kissing him, soft and sweet. “This is wonderful, this proof of our past. And as uncertain and horrifying as the future may seem, it's less terrifying knowing that you're a part of it.”

He feels as though his heart could power the entire city grid.

 


	3. Glasses

The head curator at the Museum of Forbidden Technologies is named Annise Thompkins (at least, most of the time) and she is a high school classmate of Cecil's. While not the closest of friends, the two seem to share a unique and difficult-to-define relationship. Carlos suspects that it's due to their shared ability to follow the constant affirmations and denials – sometimes in the same breath – of the machines, discoveries and events surrounding them in their jobs.

Carlos is glad that they've found each other to converse with – it's certainly helped reduce the frequency of his migraines. He has a deep sympathy for her staff, who seem to be constantly popping aspirin and clutching their temples: the doublethink of Night Vale is headache inducing even in the best of situations.

While there is very little that Annise is formally allowed to know, she is _exceptional_ at un-knowing. Conveniently, Carlos has become quite good at “accidentally” letting slip information over drinks when they meet up with her occasionally after work. He's cultivated quite a skill in inadvertently mentioning what he knows about items that have, on public record, never existed within the town. Or possibly at all – he is still grappling with the implications of legalized time travel and its repercussions on curatorial management.

As a thank you, and “to further her ability to assess in-question technology”, Annise has managed to secure several city council exemptions for Carlos, citing both on his experience outside of city limits as well as his extensive scientific knowledge.

He is only very slightly embarrassed to admit that he did, in fact, cry tears of joy upon receiving the paperwork permitting him one (1) pocket calculator of medium-or-smaller size, for personal use only.

 

* * *

 

Constant surveillance has become something of a non-issue in Carlos' life. There was a point when he would have been shocked – absolutely astounded – at the amount of data collected about the citizens of Night Vale, but after a while he'd come to view it as almost comforting. He no longer consciously noted the location of cameras or microphones. Self-censoring had become second nature and automatic; things better left unsaid were actually left unsaid, and even those he was now able to communicate effectively through meaningful looks and strong enough thought projection.

Out of curiosity, he asks for a copy of his file from the Sheriff's Secret Police, something which is technically legal but curiously difficult, physically, to manage. He wasn't positive whether the records clerk – an artfully arranged pile of moss and ferns – received the request, but a few weeks later a disc appeared in the mail, labeled with his full name, social security number, and most embarrassing childhood memory.

The ban on computers meant that he had no way to view the information, but it was a bit of a relief to know that it all fit onto a single disc. Or, at least, all the information the city was willing to release did. He tucked it into his safety deposit box, comforted to have it alongside all of the other reminders of his existence, should he suddenly cease to exist: photo albums, dental records, duplicate house keys and a small, velvet box that he was saving for... someday. Perhaps some day sooner, rather than later.

 

* * *

 

“I don't want you to go,” Cecil whined. “This is the twenty-first century! Can't you just video conference them? Skype? Google Hangout? Small-animal sacrificial summoning ritual?”

“We've been over this, Cecil,” Carlos said for what felt like the hundredth time. “You know how fickle long-distance phone and internet service can get here, and it's too important to my research to leave it to chance.” He took his boyfriend's hand from where it fiddled absently with the milk carton. “You can still come with me, you know. It would be fun! Getting out of town, taking a break, going to the beach....”

It was Cecil's turn to sigh. “You know that I would like nothing more than to take a vacation with you. But the new contract that took effect with the buyout stipulates that if I don't give six weeks notice for a schedule alteration, I'm under probation. Which now involves the Dark Box _and_ death, and I really do not want the Dark Box again.”

“Well, I'll only be gone a week. A week Outside Time, so it may be even less here. I'll probably be back by Thursday.” He ran his finger across Cecil's knuckles before returning to his Flakey-Os. “Plus, this way you can watch your westerns without me interrupting every ten minutes.”

“You do interrupt an awful lot,” Cecil remarked, kindly. “I suppose you can stay until Friday, if you really must. No – until Thursday night. But you can wait until after eight. That would be okay.”

 

* * *

 

A little before noon Cecil sends a text.

_You'll be on time for dinner tonight, right? I'm was thinking cacciatore._

In response Carlos sends a string of cute cartoon emoji: a man, a tomato, a clock, thumbs up, another man, a heart.

Just as Carlos has adapted to the rest of Night Vale's disregard for order, he's embraced the absurdity of trying to communicate to others something as intrinsically self-centric and subjective as emotion. He has, as of late, begun foregoing words entirely.

_Is that a yes?_

Sometimes the unsubtly of yes-or-no questions is necessary, as lacking in poetry as they are. Cecil suspects that Carlos forces this, in part, just to mess with him. But he also thinks he understands. More or less. Enough.

_Yes. See you after work! xoxo_

The clarity of the answer is only slightly marred by the fact that it is followed immediately by a close-up photograph of a seagull.

So Carlos was definitely messing with him.

Probably.

Well, if Carlos could pretend to be doing something referred to as _text_ messaging while actually sending images, he could retaliate in kind.

 

* * *

 

“I got you something,” Cecil says after dinner, hands behind his back and smile wide.

Carlos has learned that is usually a dangerous sign when Cecil is this cheerful about something. He manages what he hopes is a neutral-sounding, “Oh?”

“Here,” he says, holding out his gift, expectant.

It's unclear if this is better or worse. Certainly more suspect. “New glasses? I thought you liked these ones.”

“I do!” Cecil protests quickly, “I do like them. Very much. They're _very_ _scientific_.”

Cecil was quite smitten by all the trappings of Capital-“S” Science, from the lab coats and file folders to the thick, black frames that usually threatened to slide down Carlos' nose. He often mentioned how intelligent and authoritative they were. And, truth be told, these replacements seemed lackluster at best, thin and nondescript and fragile-looking.

Carlos was sure he must be making his skeptical face, which he'd been trying to reduce the use of, because Cecil assured him, “I'm told that these are also _very scientific_. They're made with polymers and micro-thingies.”

“Oh, well,” Carlos laughs. “As long as there are micro-thingies.”

“Try them out, and if you don't like them, I can return them.”

Carlos does as he's asked and swaps his frames for the new ones. They feel strange on his face, too light, the edges too narrow. The prescription is correct, but it's difficult for him to mentally separate the ability to see from the feeling of pressure against his nose and temples. He pushes against the bridge with his forefinger several times, trying to reassure himself that they're still there.

Cecil reaches up and fiddles with them slightly, making some minor adjustment. He brushes a lock of Carlos hair to the side and studies his face intently. It's still a strange sensation to allow somebody else to play with his appearance that way, the small part of his remaining vanity recoiling at the idea. But Cecil enjoys fussing over him, and he can't deny that it's pleasant.

Apparently satisfied with his work, Cecil kisses his cheek and curls against him to watch the evening news.

*

On evenings like these they often stay tuned after the broadcast to watch reruns of nearly-forgotten shows from Cecil's childhood, which were always bordering on the familiar for Carlos, yet somehow foreign and confusing, possibly due to the fact that many appeared to have been filmed in Russian, despite starring well-known American actors.

Tonight, however, as the anchor signs off Cecil pulls his arm lose from Carlos' waist to reach for the remote.

“Tired?” Carlos asks.

“Not exactly,” Cecil replies, standing and reaching a hand out in invitation. “But I _was_ thinking about heading to bed.”

Carlos allows himself to be pulled off the couch and reeled in close. “Mmm,” he hums, the sound vibrating through both of their chests. “I just need to get my clothes from the dryer so I have something to wear for my trip. I'll meet you in there?”

“At least you don't need to wear anything tonight,” Cecil says, taking a moment to steal a grope and a kiss before letting the other man go free. “Don't take too long.”

*

By the time Carlos enters the bedroom, Cecil has made himself comfortable, sprawled across the bed with his hands behind his head, shirt open an extra button, socks already off. Carlos takes his time to appreciate the view before sauntering into the room and setting the laundry basket aside.

“So,” he says, slowly untucking his own shirt. “Did you have anything, uh, _special_ in mind for tonight?”

Cecil licks his lips and shakes his head, making no move to get up or help, “Nothing in particular, no. This is just fine by me.”

Carlos chuckles low and resonant, savoring the little jump Cecil's hips make at the sound. “What, watching me?”

“It _is_ one of my favorite past times.”

The shirt slides slowly from Carlos' arms to the floor, where he lets it stay. “Well, I'm always happy to oblige.”

As he begins to work his buckle open and slowly pull the belt free of the loops, he takes another step forward, staying just out of reach.

He unbuttons his jeans and slides the zipper down, hissing a little at the pressure and release. “Is this all I can expect from you tonight? Watching? That sounds rather lonely.”

Cecil scoots towards the edge of the bed, finally giving in to the temptation to touch and not just admire. Carlos makes a move to take off his glasses, but Cecil grabs his wrist.

“Keep them on,” he urges. “Let's break them in. I want to see what you look like with them on. And nothing else.”

Carlos relents and returns to removing layers, Cecil's hands following each piece of clothing – pants, undershirt, boxers – as if welcoming the exposed skin into the dry night air.

Cecil draws back for a long, hungry look. Still seated on the bed, he slides his hands up Carlos' thighs and grabs his hips, pulling him in close. “Sweet masters of us all,” he murmurs against Carlos' stomach. “I'm pretty certain I owe somebody something for this, and probably in ways I'm not equipped to repay.”

Their bodies fit together remarkably well: as Cecil works his way lower, running his tongue along the shallow channel formed by well-defined muscles, Carlos' long fingers settle perfectly against the hollow at the back of his skull, thumbs pressed behind his ears.

A lack of industriousness has never been a problem for Cecil, and it certainly wasn't about to become one now. He begins with a very thorough expression of his appreciation for the tender skin below Carlos' navel, moving at a barely-perceptible pace from left to right, sucking and nipping as the mood strikes him.

When he finally reaches the base of Carlos' cock, he pauses and looks up, making sure that the scientist is watching with his slack and heavy-lidded expression. With one long, smooth motion and eyes locked he pulls Carlos towards him, taking him in as far as he can.

The movements are achingly slow and thorough, as he runs his tongue in long lines and small circles before pulling Carlos back in, only to repeat with small, whimper-inducing variations. His hands on Carlos' hips keep him firmly in place, half to prevent him from bucking too hard and half to keep him from falling over.

It seems, scientifically speaking, that one should become desensitized to particular movements after repeated exposure. Even with sounds and sensations such as these, even when so expertly administered, even against such sensitive parts.

Evidence, however, suggests otherwise.

Carlos tries to stay still, to keep his grip on Cecil's hair light and gentle, but his body is too invested to listen to his brain and he feels his whole body twitching at the conflict between thought and desire. A hot tension builds deep in the pit of his stomach, prickling outwards to the rest of him.

“Wai– wait a mo– _oh!_ A moment,” he gasps, toes beginning to feel like pins and needles. He focuses his eyes again, looking down at Cecil, whose lap he is straddling, whose mouth is stretched around him, who is looking up at him, equal parts smug and lustful.

He has to close his eyes _right now_ , before he looses control completely.

“Not yet,” he pants, gently pushing Cecil backwards. “I don't want to– _unh_ – I don't want to finish just yet.”

Cecil pulls away, still moving tantalizingly slow. “Oh? What were you thinking instead?” he asks against the crease of Carlos' hips.

Carlos puts his hands atop Cecil's to still the thumbs rubbing absently against his thighs. He needed a moment to catch his breath and regain his ability to speak. “I _think_ that you're wearing way too much clothing right now.”

“Oh, I don't know,” Cecil says. “I don't see any problem at all with the current arrangement.”

Carlos, composure regained somewhat, pushes him backwards across the bed, pinning those wandering, distracting hands above his head. “I see one,” he leans in close, taking Cecil's earlobe carefully between his teeth, the sound of his breath immediate and inescapable.

Cecil makes a strangled, questioning noise, to which he quietly replies, “It makes it _so_ much harder to fuck you.”

All of the fight leaves the radio host with a single exhale as he goes boneless against the mattress. “I think I have been convinced. You're very... _persuasive_.”

Carlos kisses him chastely on the lips, “I want this to be good enough to last you through to next week when I get back.”

“When we'll do it again, I hope?”

“Mmm,” Carlos hums, kissing along his collarbone and slowly working the buttons of his shirt. “Twice, if I have my way.”

“It's nice to know we agree on the truly important issues,” Cecil says as warm, broad hands spread across his chest and stomach. “Even if you still insist on believing that–”

His follow-up is cut short by the gentle drag of teeth against his nipple, the rough scrape offset by warm, wet breath.

“Oh, no. Don't try to bait me into anything tonight. I'm already wound-up over having to leave, and not knowing exactly when I'll get to do this again.” Carlos admonished, adding, quietly, “If I'll get to do this again.”

“Listen,” Cecil put a finger under his chin to lift it, looking him straight on, serious. “Our continued existence in this delicate and merciless universe is uncertain. But at least we can make ourselves temporarily, blissfully ignorant of our own circumstances and enjoy what fleeting moments we have. So maybe now isn't the time? If that's okay?”

He is relatively new to living with the constant knowledge of his own mortality; it's so easy to forget that a lifetime in Night Vale may have made the idea of death a comfortable subject of contemplation, but that does not make it any more palatable or desirable of an outcome. It's easy to forget that they're both still working through what it means, emotionally, to be a part of a pair, of something larger than themselves.

Instinctually Carlos wants to say that he didn't mean it, or that he promises that everything will be okay. But part of this new-found awareness is knowing that neither of those statements would be truthful, and that sometimes truth is more important than false comfort. A year and a half ago – and even more recently – he would have tried to lie to both himself and his boyfriend to make them feel better, but not now.

“Okay,” he says, and tries to turn his head away, but Cecil keeps it in place.

He can't pretend that he can keep Cecil from being hurt, he can't pretend that he can make anything better. He can't pretend that he has any actual control: over how Cecil feels or reacts, over what happens to either of them, over the vast and unknowable secrets of the universe. So he just says the only truth that he can manage, that he knows because it is a part of who he is now, and hopes that it conveys a small fraction of what he really means.

“I love you.”

Cecil kisses him – forgiveness and kindness and lust and sweetness and shyness and affection and possessiveness and understanding and a million other things that a single kiss can't really encompass but a past, a home, so many, many months of context can. It's just a kiss, but Carlos knows that that's only a fraction of what it really means.

Together they wrestle the rest of Cecil's clothes off, never allowing their mouths to part for more than a breath, a single kiss continuing on and on and telling each other so much more that it should be able to. Carlos settles his weight and the contact, the heat, is so perfect, so exactly right. The pressure and friction of their combined bodies seems to be precisely calibrated for maximum pleasure.

For a few moments they do nothing but savor the connection, moving slowly against one another. There's no rush, no race to the end, just the spark of the moment itself as they live it.

Eventually Cecil grows impatient and rolls them, putting himself on top and reaching back with one hand to stretch himself open. This is all fine – more than fine – by Carlos, who can barely muster the mental coherency to keep his limbs coordinated, much less move things along. He watches from below, utterly fascinated by the shifts in weight and tone and expression as Cecil rocks alternately against his own fingers and Carlos' body.

Carlos smooths a hand across Cecil's flank, pressing so that he can feel the ridge of ribs through the insulating layers. It's just enough to allow him to dig his fingers in, grabbing just hard enough to feel his hand knocked about by Cecil's shoulder blades when his back arches, pulling them together just tightly enough that the ridges of their hips knock against one another like tectonic plates. He loves being able to hold on so tightly, simultaneously feeling the sturdy scaffolding of Cecil's bones and the soft press of his skin.

Their bodies really do fit together remarkably well.

“Good?” Carlos asks, pushing himself into a sitting position. Already Cecil looks half-gone, eyes partially unfocused and lips parted, getting lost in his own motions. He nods, joints becoming unglued and malleable, neck swaying gently. His head rests against the top of Carlos' shoulder, seemingly unable to hold itself up any longer, though his mouth seems to be able to find the stamina to work against the thrumming pulse there.

Cecil's hand is pulled away from where it's still lazily working, and he makes a disappointed sound in response. It's only the vaguest of vocalizations, with no real effort to make it intelligible. He may be amping up the performance just slightly since this is, he knows, a particular favorite for Carlos – when he is completely out of words and incoherent with the simple pleasure of sex. Such a thing can hardly be called acting, however, when he himself is enjoying it so very, very much.

Carlos works quickly, rolling a slick condom onto himself and maneuvering Cecil into position before pulling him slowly down around his cock.

Breathing is suddenly difficult, but increased oxygen intake improves sensation and Carlos fights through it. He makes small, incremental thrusts in time with his shallow breaths, as Cecil slowly settles over him.

He slides his hands around the backs of Cecil's thighs and urges him upwards again before loosening his grip, dropping him carefully back into place. The tightness, the fullness, the abandon to gravity is heady and overwhelming. He looses himself in the rhythm, mind blissfully empty of everything except the moment.

Cecil tries to assist, pushing against the bed with knees and toes, trying to pull himself upward by Carlos' shoulders. The angle and the sensations make it difficult to contribute in any substantial manner. They are both having difficulty marshaling their bodies into order, muscles wanting nothing more than to melt within their skin and leave them puddled and loose-limbed.

Carlos pants with the effort of keeping them both in motion. “Are you close?” he asks, sweat beading across his back, making it still harder for Cecil to find a firm grip, hands sliding. There's an affirmative groan in response, muffled against Carlos' neck. The noise seems to shake its way into his blood stream, into his lungs, to escape out of his own mouth as an echo.

“Touch yourself,” Carlos breathes.

Cecil throws an elbow around the back of Carlos' neck, securing a fistful of thick, dark curls and knocking his glasses askew in the process. His other hand forces its way into the damp space between them to grab his own cock, fingers grazing his own stomach and knuckles grating against Carlos' abdomen. He jerks in time to the rhythm they've set, groans rapidly growing in pitch and duration.

Hands still occupied, Carlos throws his head to one side, allowing his glasses to tumble off his face and onto the bed. The hand in his hair pulls hard and tight against the motion and he seizes, surprised, every muscle tight.

Neck angled sharply backwards, an unfettered sound rumbles up through him and he pulls Cecil, who has gone stiff and shaky, crushingly close. No longer able to maintain control over simple things like balance, they gracelessly fall to the mattress.

*

It's quite a while later that they finally disentangle themselves, murmured endearments and admonishments as they discover precisely how sore and sticky they've become.

Carlos stumbles to the bathroom to toss the used condom and find a washcloth to clean them both up. By the time he returns Cecil is, once again, splayed out on the bed, this time slack and tired and a little sad.

“I think we broke your very scientific new glasses,” he says, regretfully, holding them up, the end of one temple dangling at an odd angle. “I hope we can fix them.”

Carlos crawls in and kisses him, laughing, “I suppose we did a good job 'breaking them in', at least.”

 

* * *

 

Cecil wakes up late the next morning, alone. He has a vague recollection of Carlos slipping out of bed, getting dressed and stroking his cheek goodbye before heading to Night Vale International Airport. The sheets are cold now; that must have been hours ago. He reaches for his watch on the nightstand to check the time, and pulls down his phone as well. It is ten-thirty and there is a text waiting for him: an airplane and a heart. He responds,

_Safe travels! Miss you already!!_

Today should be a lazy day. He isn't expected at the station for hours yet, he's got the place to himself, he's tired and sore in the best possible way. But he has plans.

*

_You know how I'm very into science these days?  
_ _Well, guess what?_

Carlos sees the message some time during the mid-afternoon, during a coffee break between meetings. Apparently he hadn't responded promptly enough for Cecil's liking, because there is already a follow-up adding,

_I did an experiment!!  
_ _Can I send it to you to look over?_

There is a soft warmth that spreads through Carlos' chest as he reads the message. It's a frankly ridiculous request and he can't imagine just what kind of data he's going to be sent, but he's just so damn proud and flattered of his boyfriend for trying so hard.

_Of course! Anything for Science. And you._

He includes several arbitrarily selected emoji to go with the message. Just because he feels like it. Such conduct is unbefitting of a professional scientist but he finds that, when Cecil is involved, he has ceased to care.

*

Carlos sees the email notification just before dinner, the subject line, “Important SUPER SECRET Very Scientific Experiment!” He laughs to himself and tucks the phone back in his pocket. He'll read it later, when he's not busy schmoozing up corporate donors in an attempt to subsidize the team's research grants. Real Science trumps Super Secret Science here outside of Night Vale.

When he finally returns to his hotel room, some time much later, he discovers that the body of the email doesn't provide much in the way of additional information. It simply says, “evidence” in small, red letters. There is, at least, a file attached.

His phone says it's going to take seventeen minutes to finish downloading via the hotel wi-fi, so he undresses, washes his face, and clicks on the television while he waits. He surfs ad-filled channels until he lands on one that seems to be in the middle of _Paint Your Wagon_. He immediately feels the need to share this with Cecil.

_Lee Marvin is on my TV! I can't escape._

Cecil responds with several messages in close succession. Tuesday is date night, and it seems he hasn't made plans in Carlos' absence.

_Of course you can't, silly. You didn't fill out the paperwork.  
_ _And don't pretend like you'd want to. Lee Marvin is amazing.  
_ _What channel is it on?_

They text lazily back and forth about the mundanity of the day, occasionally commenting on the movie, although they've both seen it enough times that there's little new to say on the subject. They could call, but they've developed a particular intimacy around this sort of pointless messaging that's pleasant, familiar. It feels like being at work instead of being states apart.

_Did you get my email, btw?_

_Yes. Downloading now. It's taking forever._

_Ok. Let me know if you think the experiment was successful or not..._

Carlos flips back to his email to check on the file's progress. It's nearly finished. He taps the icon and the video player pops up in its place. What experiment could this be from? He hopes that Cecil didn't do anything hazardous with his lab equipment, or catch footage of the slime mold displaying sentience. Although that _would_ be pretty cool.

For a few seconds he can't tell what he's looking at. There's an off-white wall, tan carpet, a door, a dark-skinned hand pushing it open–

He jerks upright as he recognizes the setting. That's his hand. That's their bedroom. That's– that's _last night_.

He feels light-headed, possibly from moving too quickly, possibly from shock, possibly from the blood rushing from his brain and heading elsewhere.

The footage is shaky and occasionally turns to views of the wall or ceiling, but it mostly remains focused on Cecil. The sounds make up context clues for the missing portions, and their triggers to his sensory memory fill in the rest.

It becomes more jumbled as it goes on. Near the end an arm flies out from the corner of the screen and everything goes crooked. It's followed by an abrupt blur as the camera is flung to the side, reframing the scene in a Dutch angle, weirdly titled but far enough back that both men are now visible.

He has never seen himself this way. Sure, he's considered how he must look in these moments but seeing it on a screen is... strange. It makes him surprisingly uneasy to watch, despite having been there in the first place. But it's also incredibly arousing. And, oddly, comforting.

It's one thing to know what he's feeling, or to see photographs of moments, but it's another entirely to see his expressions in action: it turns out that the way that he looks at Cecil is precisely the same way that Cecil looks at him. He'd suspected – he'd hoped – but he hadn't known.

The end of the footage is intense in a way he didn't anticipate. He can't tear his eyes away. In the video they're both so concentrated, so focused in the moment. The video ends with the crackle of sheets against speakers and a close-up shot of the disorderly duvet as they fall on top of the camera in a sweaty, tangled heap.

Carlos stares at his phone.

He's become so much more adept at being able to read between lines, to assess the meanings behind the words, answer questions that aren't really questions. He's taught himself so much about what it means to watch and be watched, to record and be documented, to become inexorably entwined into the evidence of another person's life. But this he feels unprepared for. He's always felt unprepared for Cecil.

He sends a message that consists mostly of icons, a sort of rebus for the half-formed emotions spinning around in his skull.

The reply comes barely seconds later.

_Use your words, please._

Carlos laughs at being called out. He's sure his face would be heating up right now if it wasn't already on fire. He finally manages to write,

_I take back what I said about the glasses. It seems they ARE very scientific._

_Told you so. Annise lent them to me.  
And what did you think of my experiment?_

_I think that you're amazing. But I already knew that._

Cecil sends him a single symbol in reply:

<3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this happened. This is my first time writing something this explicit, eek. Also, I blame [Sex with Glass](http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/01/21/google-glass-sex_n_4637741.html) and Night Vale's police state for about 80% of this whole fic, through it went through about fifteen major rehashings before I decided it was time to set it free on the Archive and be done with it.
> 
> My first time doing the chapters thing, too. Please let me know if anything has gone horribly awry. I also value any general or specific feedback, as well as suggestions, tips, etc for the future. <3


End file.
